


Acta Non Verba

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [3]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: M/M, Medieval Ireland, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12646713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: The world and all of its demands start haunting him as soon as he's up and able to walk more than a few a few rods without needing to sit and rest. This is a convent, after all, and now that the immediate crisis has passed, it's not a fitting place for a man like him, nor even a man like Diarmuid.





	Acta Non Verba

**Author's Note:**

> Set after [Alis Grave Nil](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12157461)
> 
> This is a fair use work of whatiffery, and a labor of love, not lucre. The Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners; this musing is mine.

_Acta non verba -- deeds, not words_

The world and all of its demands start haunting him as soon as he's up and able to walk more than a few a few rods without needing to sit and rest. This is a convent, after all, and now that the immediate crisis has passed, it's not a fitting place for a man like him, nor even a man like Diarmuid. Sister Agnes says that a priest will come across the river from Waterford with the waxing moon to say mass and shrive them of their sins. The Abbess has sent a message.

He nods in understanding but chortles bitterly on the inside at the idea of the sins these women commit. _If they but knew sin and the blackness in the hearts of men … they might never sleep soundly again._

As the moon wanes, he daily walks the parts of the convent grounds and the courtyard he is allowed to enter, and the rods become chains and the chains become a furlong ... and not a moment too soon.

A gaggle of girls has been pledged to the convent as novices. One or two seem to have come of their own will -- they are quiet and keep their eyes cast down and he catches only glimpses of them -- but the rest are here because their families cannot afford dowries for them or want to curry favor with the church, or both.

He almost laughs the first time Diarmuid rounds a corner as fast as his legs will take him and upon seeing him, relief washes over Diarmuid's face and he swiftly tucks in behind him on the bench. A moment later two giggling novices round the corner. One scowl from him and they squeak and retreat ... hopefully back to whatever task they've abandoned.

Diarmuid spends the rest of the day clinging to his side like a burr, and though he doesn't say anything, he's clearly flustered.

"I truly do not understand girls," Diarmuid finally says as he rises from their evening prayers and in the dim and flickering light from the watchlight, pulls off his robe, hanging it on a peg by the door.

He tries to look away from the sight of that lean young body as Diarmuid gets tangled in the undyed roughspun smock the nuns have given him to wear to bed. He knows he should look away, that wanting like this is a sin and he will burn for it, but try as he might, he can't. He knows that he should pray ... but that's never worked, either. Once again he offers up his silence and his obedience and hopes that it will be enough.

Oblivious, Diarmuid carries on as he pops his head and arms through the holes, "They follow me around and ask me silly questions when they should be attending to the tasks Mother Superior has set them, and they seem to want something from me -- but I do not know what is is." His voice quavers a bit.

He removes his shirt and trousers and pulls a similar tunic over his nakedness before he sits on the edge of the bed and holds out his hand to Diarmuid, who almost shyly takes it after a moment. He cradles Diarmuid's hand -- smaller but strong and callused from work -- in his darker and scarred ones for a moment before he gives it an encouraging squeeze and a pat. He can feel Diarmuid's eyes on him, but he dare not meet his gaze. Even in the scant light of the watchlight, too much might show, and he can't risk that. Not now. (Not ever.)

After a moment, Diarmuid's hand squeezes back and then he withdraws it as he makes his way to his pallet along the opposite wall.

"Thank you for listening to me. You always know what to say to me ... even though you say nothing at all."

He chortles in spite of himself at that as he slips beneath the blanket.

His body aches from the labors of the day (a far cry from what he could do only a few months ago, oh the irony of that) but his mind will not let him rest.

He has faced down sycophants at courts across the known world. He has faced down the enemies of the Cross. He has faced down barbarian savages in the woods but a few days ride from here ... so why does he feel so put out and ill-prepared at the prospect of taking on a few novices barely out of the nursery?

~oo(0)oo~

He and Diarmuid are hauling water from the well to the kitchens so the sisters could prepare both brose and sowans, when Sister Agnes -- who forbade him to carry more than one bucket at a time -- pulls him aside to give him a small pot of salve. "Equal parts calendula and arnica, with half that of bog myrtle, and a kiss of mint. I would start with it now, so that you don't ache too badly come night."

 _I seldom sleep well, not unless I'm exhausted_. He nods and smiles his thanks.

Diarmuid is not at the kitchen when he returns, nor is he at the well. He finds the bucket several yards from the well -- dropped as if Diarmuid has fled. Odd.

First things first, he needs to put the salve away and then he will continue to seek Diarmuid.

"It's just a kiss," he faintly hears a young woman's voice say as he lays his hand upon the handle of the door. He opens it and immediately sees Diarmuid backed into the the wall, hands white knuckle clenching the rough stones, face turned as far up and away as he can get it from one of the novices, one of the two who has been pestering him these past few days. As soon as Diarmuid sees him, relief floods into his eyes, but does not entirely wash the look of almost terror from him.

The novice, on the other hand, shoots him an annoyed look and does not even have the grace to look abashed that he has caught her like this.

All hesitation flees as instinct takes over. In two strides he crosses the room, seizes her by the ear and hauls, her, squealing, through the door and down the corridor. As soon as he releases her, she begins with, "Do you know who my father --" which turns into a high pitched shriek as he grabs her wrist, whips it up, back, and around so her hand nearly touches the base of her neck, and propels her, protesting all the way, to the room where the abbess conducts her daily work.

As soon as they barge through the door, the chit has the cheek to begin lying, but Diarmuid's quavering voice comes from behind and cuts through her prattling. "She came to my quarters, Mother Superior, and would not leave me alone. She bade me kiss her and tried to force me to do so. My friend pulled her off me and brought her here."

"I see," the abbess says, arching an eyebrow. The novice, meanwhile, makes a great show of protesting her innocence.

"I have done nothing to her, but ask her to leave me be. I do not want to kiss her -- I do not want to kiss any woman." Diarmuid blurts, still visibly rattled. 

"I had feared that your continued presence here would cause … incidents among some of the younger and more foolish sisters and novices," The abbess replies, picking up her quill and briefly glancing at the letter before her on the desk. "You are leaving when the priest comes." It is a statement, not a question.

"Aye," Diarmuid responds, "and gladly so."

The abbess turns her gaze away from Diarmuid, towards him, her eyes cool and level as she continues, "You may unhand my novice now." It is only now that he realizes he still holds the jar of salve, and almost laughs aloud, which causes a pause before he complies, and he wonders if the abbess reads it as insolence. "You may leave us now," she says, and her voice turns to ice as she rises from her chair, "I have this matter well in hand. She is not the first idiot child I've taken to the orchard to choose the switch which will correct her wayward behavior."

They are almost back to their quarters when Diarmuid clasps his hand and says, "Thank you. I do not know what -- I did not want to strike her, but --"

He smiles back, puts his arm around Diarmuid's shoulders, squeezing him gently, and before he can stop himself, he reaches over and ruffles Diarmuid's curls with his free hand.

Diarmuid's answering smile warms him more than a fine summer's day.

He knows he should stop this behavior on his part before it went any further, because he has forsworn such things, and yet, he feels he could sooner stop breathing than wanting to be by Diarmuid's side.

He has given up so much, and (mostly) set aside the man he had once been, and has lived a life of service since that that day because he knows in his heart that faith without works is nothing.

As he rubs a little of the salve along his his ribs and hip, a part of him, one that he cannot tamp down nor silence no matter how he tries, wonders … could he not have just this one little thing?

Would it really be so bad?

He does and does not want to know the answer to that question.

**Author's Note:**

> The story continues in [Arduus Ad Solem](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12848898)


End file.
